


anecdotes (& other answers to questions you never asked)

by Kalgalen



Category: Wolf 359 (Radio)
Genre: M/M, Multi, One Shot Collection, Tumblr Prompt
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-03-17
Updated: 2018-04-09
Packaged: 2019-04-03 20:28:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 4,354
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14004105
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kalgalen/pseuds/Kalgalen
Summary: Collection of short one shots (under 1000 words), written mostly in response to tumblr prompts, about various characters.





	1. action-reaction

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> for the prompt kepcobi+breathplay from an anon!

It starts, as it often does, with a sarcastic rebuttal from Jacobi. Kepler can ignore them, usually, even appreciate them when the moment is right - when they’re not an answer to a very valid criticism he’s making to Jacobi about his performances.

This isn’t one of those moments.

Wrong place, wrong time, wrong mood; Kepler snaps. Jacobi yelps when his back hits the wall, though Kepler suspects it’s more from surprise than from pain. That’s alright; the pain can come later, during training, when Jacobi has to face Kepler in hand-to-hand combat and fails miserably, like  _he fails at everything else._

Kepler’s right hand closes around Jacobi’s throat, fingernails digging threateningly in the soft skin there, and he growls:

”I should snap your neck right there and now for that. I’m not sure you understand exactly how much I’m displeased with what you did back there.”

Jacobi stares up at him, not answering even though Kepler isn’t keeping him from doing so - yet. His eyes have always looked dark, but now they look like pools of black glass, brown iris a barely discernible ring around blown pupils, blending in the shadow Kepler casts over him. His fingers have automatically wrapped around Kepler’s wrist but he’s not fighting against his grip - is maybe even trying to  _keep him here_. Kepler can feel his pulse - fast, strong,  _desperate_ \- where his thumb presses beneath the edge of Jacobi’s jaw, and he gives an experimental squeeze. Jacobi jerks against him and makes a noise that sparks a brazier deep in his gut, replacing the heat of his anger but no less scorching; in the bewildered silence that follows and conveniently ignoring the warmth in his own chest, he observes the interesting shade of crimson Jacobi’s face is turning.

This is not due to a lack of air, he’s certain of that.

Kepler finally lets go, and the tips of his fingers feel raw and sensitive as they drag against heated skin. Jacobi drops his hands as well, as though Kepler’s sleeve has suddenly caught fire, and steps aside, decidedly not meeting his eyes. Kepler only just manages not to sigh audibly. This might prove…  _uncomfortable_  - for the both of them - but he has a lesson to drill into Jacobi.

“Training room C2, in fifteen minutes,” he instructs as he leaves. “Be there.”

He hears Jacobi cough, and his voice - a bit hoarse as he answers,  _“yes, sir”_  - does nothing to quell the blaze burning in Kepler’s stomach.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (come find me @kalgalen.tumblr.com if you wanna submit a prompt~)


	2. not made to last

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> written for @taniushka on tumblr for the prompt "kepcoffel" ~~and oh man I need to write more about That~~

They have a ritual, in the mornings they spend together. They haven’t set rules for it; whatever they have, it’s not made to last, and there isn’t any reason to make it more tangible by putting words on it.

Kepler rises first, slipping out of the bed with a practiced ease that allows him to pad out of the room without waking the two others up. He puts the coffee on, starts preparing breakfast, movements a bit mechanical as his mind works to catch up on the level of wakefulness his body is at as soon as his feet touch the ground.

Jacobi is eventually the first to join him in the kitchen - Kepler suspects that Eiffel is still a bit skittish about spending any length of time alone with him, and might feign sleep more often than not to avoid the situation. Jacobi touches him as he says hello - a hand brushing against Kepler’s elbow or on the small of his back if he’s feeling particularly brave, a simple knock of his shoulder against Kepler’s otherwise. He helps Kepler, sometimes, or just beelines for the balcony for his morning cigarette, an habit that irritates Kepler beyond belief.  _“How are you supposed to taste anything after getting your taste buds burned off?”_  he asks, displeased - though not as abrasive as he could be, given the early hour. Jacobi shrugs and blows a smug ring of smoke in his general direction, and Kepler locks him out on the balcony for his trouble until Eiffel finally slinks into the kitchen, takes a look at the bulletproof shutters that close off the balcony from the rest of the house and spares an hesitant glance at Kepler before pushing the button that opens them back up.

Kepler observes from the corner of his eye as Jacobi and Eiffel settle at the kitchen table or on the couch - always shoulder against shoulder, exchanging words in a low voice, Eiffel occasionally chuckling and Jacobi giving him a smile in answer, and they look so domestic with each other Kepler almost avert his eyes, feeling like an intruder, before remembering that this is  _his_  home in the first place.

He sets the food down on the table and they eat, Jacobi alternating between discussing work matters with Kepler and bickering with Eiffel as if they were an old couple (and that  _doesn’t_  make Kepler feel bitter in the least; he might have known Jacobi longer, but he is not looking to get a meaningful relationship out of this.)

(He doesn’t think about how the possibility of them leaving makes him feel. He shouldn’t  _feel_  anything about it in the first place.)

Eiffel and Kepler often don’t directly talk to each other without Jacobi’s intervention; Eiffel is still a bit guarded, walking on eggshells around him outside of the very clear boundaries of the bedroom. He might attempt to joke from time to time, but seems to be put ill-at-ease by Kepler’s reactions to them (good; anyone who is at ease around him is a moron. Look at Jacobi.) Kepler doesn’t know how to build a relation outside of a work environment, and isn’t really looking to learn, so he mostly avoid saying anything that could upset Eiffel and their entire balance too much.

And so they eat, drink coffee, get dressed. The closer they get to the moment they have to leave the house, the slower they get; Kepler, at least, isn’t doing it on purpose, but it feels like he’s struggling against the comfortable warmth of their little triangle, the ties to the previous night snapping one by one as they get ready to split up again, until the next time.

It doesn’t mean it’s important to him.

It’s not made to last.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (come find me @kalgalen.tumblr.com if you wanna submit a prompt!)


	3. nice shade

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> not actually from a prompt, I just drew [some art](http://kalgalen.tumblr.com/post/170989821273/i-associated-jacobi-smeared-lipstick-and) that sparked Discussions and I had to write something about it

The lipstick is holding on well enough, all things considered. He hasn’t gone easy on it, biting his lips relentlessly in an unconscious effort to hide it - waiting for someone,  _anyone_ , to remark negatively on it.

Instead, he’d gotten a comment from Miss Young (“Glad to see some people are trying to put an effort in their appearance around here” - unexpectedly sweet) and a compliment from Mister Cutter (“You’re looking nice today, Daniel!” - unsurprisingly, creepy.) Even Maxwell had managed to tear her eyes from her screen long enough to notice it and approve of the shade, and Kepler-

Well.

Kepler has yet to say anything related to Jacobi’s little experimentation, and his attitude when they’d cross path around 8 o’clock hadn’t betrayed much.

It might be due to the paranoia resulting from working in an overly competitive work environment - or just because of the fact he literally painted a target on his face today - but Jacobi feels observed, like eyes following his every move. He shrugs it off, and tries to devote his thoughts to his current work until it’s the sole focal point of his concentration. He doesn’t really pay attention when people start leaving for lunch, until the lab is empty except for him and-

“Are you going to skip a meal just to protect your makeup?”

Jacobi represses a jolt and swings his chair around to face Kepler. He grins easily, putting up an assured facade he’s far from feeling.

“Wouldn’t be the first time,” he jokes. “Plus, it’s worth protecting, right?”

Kepler’s eyes narrow and the corners of his mouth lift up, but Jacobi can’t tell if it’s a genuine smile or the kind of grimace a wolf does before biting half of your face off.

“Sure is,” Kepler says -  _purrs_  - and steps closer. Jacobi focuses on keeping his breathing steady as Kepler’s fingers come into contact with his chin, tilt his head up. Jacobi feels like a bug under the microscope of Kepler’s gaze, and when he swallows nervously Kepler smiles - a real amused smile this time, but still with far too many teeth to be entirely friendly.

“That’s a nice shade you chose there, Mister Jacobi,” he says, and - Jacobi’s just human, alright, and he might be a little high on adrenaline right now - so he looks coyly at Kepler from beneath his lashes and says:

“I’m sure it would look great on you, too. Wanna try it out?”

Kepler blinks, taken aback enough that it actually shows in the way his expression wavers slightly - just for a second. Then he leans over Jacobi again, hands on the armrests of Jacobi’s chair and their faces inches apart, and his smile turns predatory.

“Of course. How do you propose we do that?”

As an answer, Jacobi pushes himself up just enough to catch Kepler’s mouth with his own and sets out on thoroughly kissing his boss.

He really hopes he hasn’t misread the signals - you never know, with Kepler and his layers upon layers of masks.

Kepler doesn’t protest, in any case. He gives as good as he gets, before biting down on Jacobi’s lower lip one last time and moving back.

“That’s- certainly an interesting way to apply makeup,” Kepler says, breath suspiciously short.

Not that Jacobi can claim to be in a better state.

“Hmhm,” he nods. “Don’t have the tube on me. Had to improvise.”

Kepler pushes away from the chair with an appreciative laugh.

“Putting to work your capacity of adaptation. How commendable.”

Jacobi shrugs, playing nonchalance.

“What can I say? I’m very dedicated.”

Kepler hums and crosses his arms.

“Dedicated enough to leave your work and get some food? I already convinced Maxwell, I thought you’d be easier.”

Jacobi keeps his comment about his  _level of easiness_  to himself, but he can tell Kepler is thinking about the exact same thing by the spark on his eyes.

“Sure,” he says instead. “Go ahead, I’ll be right there.”

Kepler looks at him sharply.

“You’d better be.” And, as he reaches the door: “If you’re not here in ten minutes, I’m coming back to drag you to the cafeteria - and I’m not letting you choose your menu.”

“You’re a monster!” Jacobi calls behind him, and he hears Kepler laugh before the door closes behind him.

* * *

“Oh, hi, Warren! Didn’t see you there. Anything interesting in the ballistic lab during lunch break?”

“…”

“By the way, you got some red on your face.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (come find me @kalgalen.tumblr.com if you wanna submit a prompt)


	4. even though it don't feel right

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> when I asked for prompts @monsterpub just said "KNIFE" because they? really liked? that [other thing](https://archiveofourown.org/works/13829529) I wrote? so have some post getting-torn-apart-by-your-boss kepler thoughts

He’s no stranger to pain. He’s gone through Goddard’s anti-interrogation training; he’s gone through actual torture at the hands of people who didn’t care if he was still functional once they were done with him. He’s gone through a childhood of picking fights with kids larger than him, years of throwing a shield of bravado over battered body and bruised ego so that he could at least put on a strong front against those who would try to hurt him.  _You can’t touch me,_ it said.  _I’m unmovable._

And it had been true for thirty-seven years.

This - _this_  kind of pain is different. Each movement threatens to reopen the lacerations in his back; they are healing, slowly, though certainly not as quickly as they could due to the fact he has to care for them himself. He’s not asking for Jacobi’s help, not after the other night; he’s not accepting pity from anyone, least of all someone who lets himself be treated the way-

\- the way _Cutter treats Kepler himself._

(Maybe Jacobi knows exactly what he’s warning him against.)

The cuts flare up when he stretches, burning reminder that he  _belongs_  to Cutter. When he attempts to put words on how it makes him feel- well.

Humiliation should be pretty high on the list, when he remembers accepting to play the game, anticipation pooling in his stomach as Cutter had flicked the knife open - Kepler’s  _own knife_  - and examined the blade, before putting its bite to the test on Kepler’s shoulder - carelessly, like it was the most natural thing to do. He should be - revolted about the whole thing, certainly; he takes pride in the control he holds over those around him, yet he had willfully submitted himself to the cutting in a way even an animal wouldn’t have.

But - no. It had just been a test, anyway. One he had _passed._  Follow simple instructions, despite the pain. Remember a couple of names,  _despite the pain._  If anything, he’s coming to realize he’s proud, in some perverted, desperate sort of way. Cutter had congratulated him after scratching the last of the initials into his back - had patted his cheek, leaving bloody fingerprints in his wake, and it had felt  _fulfilling_ , like a seal of approval, like a twisted blessing.

Cutter had said,  _“Nice job, Warren.”_

He’d answered, _“Thank you, sir.”_

The memory makes his skin crawl, but if it’s with disgust or longing, he has yet to decide.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (come find me @kalgalen.tumblr.com if you wanna submit a prompt!)


	5. it's not unusual

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  ~~(it _is_ unusual but I couldn't Not use that title)~~ This isn't for a prompt, just me needing sweet fluff

Cuddling after sex isn’t customary for them. The whole deal is usually treated like a business transaction: Kepler offers a couple of hours, a whole night if he’s feeling generous, and if he has nothing else remotely important to do Jacobi comes back home with him. They provide each other with contact, with release, and once they’re done one of them makes up an excuse to leave and they don’t speak about it until the next time. It would be too awkward otherwise, too personal. As it is, the arrangement they have is one of convenience, clean-cut, no feelings involved.

(Kepler knows it’s not convenience that makes Jacobi agree to his invitation again and again. He tries not to think about how it makes  _him_  feel.)

So, yes. Finding his arms wrapped around Jacobi as he wakes up isn’t a common occurrence - but then again, what led to this wasn’t a common day.

It’s going to take him a while to forget Maxwell’s cries of distress as they’d dangled her over the edge of the skyscraper’s roof, or Jacobi’s strangled yelp when they’d dislocated his shoulder to discourage him from trying to get to her.

Kepler would have had something to say about their lack of professionalism then, about the importance of keeping a cool head in any situations and trust in his ability to get them out of any messes - if he hadn’t started to doubt there’d be another occasion to lecture them himself. The feeling of pure helpless and loss of control had been hard to shake off. They’d gotten out of it, in the end, mostly unharmed if not for their tattered psyche - nothing a couple of bottles of booze and years of repression couldn’t fix. If anything, the experience had strengthened the bonds in their team. That had to be a good thing.

Maxwell and Jacobi had stayed glued to each other’s side during the whole trip back home, eyeing suspiciously anyone coming in a thirty-feet radius. They’d fallen asleep against each other on the plane, and Kepler had stayed stubbornly awake despite the exhaustion weighing on him, not quite ready to let his guard down yet.

They’d split up once they’d been back in Florida, Kepler ordering the two others to take a few days off before they’d gotten into their cab.

“I don’t want to see you until next Monday,” he’d said, leaning against the car.

Maxwell had just nodded, looking like she was ready to accept anything as long as it meant she could go home. Jacobi had looked like he was about to argue, but he’d kept his mouth shut for once - and somehow, the absence of sarcasm had dropped another heavy layer of weariness over Kepler’s shoulders.

They’d driven off, and Kepler had elected to head home to catch a break until he had to go explain the whole mess to Cutter the next day. And the evening had been about to be as calm as he would need to be then -

\- until Jacobi had showed up, hands in his pockets, barely looking at him.

“I know you said you didn’t want to see us,” he’d muttered. “But- Can I-” he’d looked up, then, tentative. “Can I stay here tonight?”

And that - Jacobi taking the initiative, making the first move - had stunned Kepler into silence for an uncomfortable amount of time, and Jacobi had looked like he was regretting his decision - before Kepler had finally reacted, grabbing Jacobi’s face between his hands, stopping just short of kissing him - waiting for a sign to continue.

And Jacobi had given it to him, leaning up, pressing against him, pulling at his shirt - sighing softly when their lips had met, turning desperate in a handful of seconds, and Kepler had dragged him inside, pushing the door closed behind them.

Sex for them is usually a game of power, Kepler making demands and Jacobi agreeing to them as there’s nothing he’d rather be doing. That night had been - different. More careful, more delicate, Kepler running his fingers along Jacobi’s sides as if checking for any wounds they could have missed - caressing soft skin, tracing old scars, pressing kisses against the pulse point under Jacobi’s jaw as if to confirm that he was there, alive, breathing. It had been a sharp contrast from all the previous times, probably not something that would ever happen again, but something they had both needed at that moment.

And so they’re here, now -  _both_  here, tangled in the sheets, and Kepler should really get up and get ready for Cutter’s distressingly cheerful dressing-down, but he refuses to let Jacobi wake up alone this time. He doesn’t have to wait for long; as soon as he moves a bit, trying to find a more comfortable position, Jacobi’s eyes snap open, and he looks blearily at Kepler for a minute before mumbling:

“Oh, you’re still here.”

Kepler snorts. “Don’t sound disappointed.”

Jacobi grins but quickly hides his face into Kepler’s shoulder - embarrassed?

“You know I’m not.”

It feels strange, staying nested in this bed when there are so many more important tasks he should attend to, but it’s not  _bad_. It’s like trying out something everyone has been talking about, and discovering that he might be enjoying it too.

He splays his right hand against Jacobi’s ribs, digging into the tender flesh here, ignores the way Jacobi squirms at that (makes note of it, though, for future reference) and says:

“Maybe you should get in shape. You’d be more efficient that way.”

Jacobi pushes back slightly and glares at him.

“I’ve never been more in shape than I am at the moment, give me a break. Also,” and he smiles, then, wicked, rolls his hips against Kepler - “I’d say I’m already plenty efficient.”

Kepler laughs and kisses him.

He’ll let Jacobi have the last word for once - after all, this  _is_  an unusual day.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (hi come find me @kalgalen.tumblr.com)


	6. this is fading (no one to blame)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I picked Herawell for a flashfic battle and @shortwaveattentionspan suggested the prompt "please don't leave me" so here's the result Have Fun
> 
> tw aftermath of canon character death

The moon is huge and round above the beach, casting its harsh light down on the sand and giving it a preternatural glow. The waves look dark in comparison - a constantly moving swarm of shadows, licking at Hera’s toes again and again as she gazes at the horizon where the sea blends with the night sky.

She knows Maxwell is standing a couple of steps behind her - she  _wants_  her here, after all. She put her here herself, actually, because it’s the only place left Maxwell can exist in.

“You know, AIs are supposed to be able to foresee any possible situation,” Hera says finally, breaking the silence like others would break a bone. She snorts, shakes her head. “Of course you know. You knew everything that had to do with us.”

The past tense catches in her throat - in her idea of what a throat would feel like, in any case, the words glitching painfully through the physical form she built for herself in this private world. She can’t bring herself to turn around - knows Maxwell will be here, but not really, not like last time; she’ll act the same as she used to, based on Hera’s careful study of her behavior. She’ll smile, probably, because Hera wants her to smile. She might blame her, because Hera feels guilty. It’ll all be predictable, because she’s just a memory, now.

“We’re supposed to- _I_  was supposed to be able to see it coming,” Hera continues bitterly. The waves lapping at her feet rush up more aggressively, crashing against her ankles in a reflection of her emotions. “I should have been able to do something to stop this whole mess from even happening. I could have-”

A hand lands on her shoulder, and Hera freezes, staring straight ahead, waiting.

_For what? She’s not here._

“It’s alright,” Maxwell’s voice says - and it sounds so  _right_ , just like it used to, and Hera is going to simply fall into pieces, strings of code tearing each other apart because she’s never been programmed - she’s never been  _taught_  how to deal with grief, and that just might be her downfall -

“Hera, please. Look at me,” the memory says, gentle but insistent, and Hera has no choice but to turn around and look down on Maxwell, on the way the moonlight cuts deep shadows on her face and makes her eyes shine like twin mirrors.

“Listen to me. Hera.” The memory’s hands rise to cup Hera’s face. “You did your best.  _It’s alright._ You have more people to save, to _help_ , and I know you can do it. Trust yourself, since I’m not here to do it anymore.”

Hera clutches at Maxwell’s wrists, desperate, trying to keep her here -

_There’s nothing left to keep._

“Please,” she whispers. “Please. Don’t leave me alone.”

Behind her, the waves are still; the wind has stopped blowing. Time is relative, in Hera’s mind, and she clutches at it now, grasping at the moments she has left with the one person who could understand her like no one had before - and it feels like - like trying to catch fog, she guesses, frustrating and doomed to fail.

_“Please.”_  Barely a breath; just a prayer. Maxwell’s image smiles sadly. She drags Hera’s face to her level, kisses her forehead - and it shouldn’t even register, shouldn’t feel like anything, but the kiss burns bright on Hera’s form like a brand - like a blessing.

“It’s alright.”


	7. looking for a stranger to love

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hello I have a new ship and so many people to blame for it. how do yall feel about maxwell/rachel?
> 
> (title from bad habit by the kooks)

It gets easier with time.

Alana wakes up in a bedroom which is not her own, but is becoming more and more familiar. She stares up at the cream ceiling for a while, so pale it almost looks white; the morning sun filters through gauzy curtains, which lazily move in the draft coming from the window left half-open to fight the Floridian heat. There's an arm curved around Alana's waist and a face nested against her neck - and that, too, is becoming an unexpectedly regular Sunday morning occurrence.

Rachel Young stirs slightly against her, hums, but doesn't wake up. Alana starts counting heartbeats to keep her mind busy and away from work, but she inevitably drifts back to it - she's never been good at inactivity - and, like a perfectly aimed missile, to the one slightly panicked thought that creeps into her mind every time she finds herself in bed with the Director of Special Projects:

_What would Kepler say?_

Right on cue, Rachel blows a sigh against Alana's shoulder, and a second later, drops a sleepy kiss just below her ear.

"You better not be thinking about  _his opinion_ again," she mumbles. Her voice is distant, a bit cracked the way it always is in the morning before she's fully woken up - and it makes Alana's breath short, something like a hook sinking into her heart and pulling her closer to Rachel.

"What are you gonna do if I am?" she asks with fake playfulness to shake away the feeling. "Kick me out?"

Rachel doesn't answer for a while, and Alana is almost sure she fell back asleep before she says gruffly:

"Of course not. You're not getting out of breakfast that easily."

She slides out of bed and stands up to stretch, and Alana can't look away from the way the early sun traces the edges of her silhouette. She looks like a stiletto dagger, Alana thinks: slight, elegant, somewhat fragile-looking but more than sharp enough to tear a man into shreds; sometimes Alana is surprised to be able to run her hands along Rachel’s sides and not see them come away bloody.

Rachel's attitude to nakedness - casual and unapologetic, a show of power more than one of trust - has taken some time getting used to as well, but now Alana barely even feel bad about allowing herself to enjoy the show. She sits up, gathering the sheets around her to make up from the loss of heat caused by Rachel leaving, and lets her eyes wander over the expanse of unblemished skin exposed to her, pausing over the freckles and moles she’s kissed the night before. Rachel looks over her shoulder to make sure Alana is watching and smirks when she can't help but blush and look away.

"I'm making waffles today," Rachel announces as she strolls over the plum armchair in the corner of the room and picks up the silk kimono draped over it. She shrugs it on in a rare concession to modesty and goes to leave the room, stopping in the doorway to look back at Alana. "I left some fresh towels in the bathroom if you want to take a shower. Don't take too long."

And then -  _then_  Rachel smiles, genuine and almost affectionate, very different from the usual smiles that make Alana feels like she's missed a joke. This one makes her feel warm and wanted and temporarily takes her voice away, so she just nods and watch Rachel disappear in the hallway.

Alana leans back against the headboard, breathing in deeply and closing her eyes. She’s smelling Rachel’s perfume, replaying her smile in her head.

That smile, she decides, is definitely worth her superior’s wrath.


End file.
